


open the lines of communication (and you might be surprised)

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, open communication, so i tried to fix it, sorry the whole thing has been steadily kinda making me angry, they finally fucking talk okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:39:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles starts talking to him again in short bursts of honesty. In between it's the same as always. He jokes and clutches to sarcasm like a lifeline, and when he’s not talking he’s quiet in that almost unnerving way he’s been since the Nogitsune. But for moments at a time he’s more honest than Scott remembers him ever being, and it feels like a step in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open the lines of communication (and you might be surprised)

**Author's Note:**

> A short little thing I wrote because TW is steadily pissing me off.

**open the lines of communication (and you might be surprised)**

Stiles starts talking to him again in short bursts of honesty. In between it's the same as always. He jokes and clutches to sarcasm like a lifeline, and when he’s not talking he’s quiet in that almost unnerving way he’s been since the Nogitsune. But for moments at a time he’s more honest than Scott remembers him ever being, and it feels like a step in the right direction.

* * *

The first time is at the gas station on their way to New Mexico. Scott isn’t ready for it. At all. He’s staring across the desert squinting in the bright sunlight when Stiles says out of the blue, “There was a pin.”

He’s a second away from telling Stiles he doesn’t have to talk. Doesn’t have to tell Scott if he doesn’t want to. But the words get stuck in his throat, and Stiles just keeps going.

“There was one little metal pin attached to the scaffolding. He was trying to pull me down.”

“He was trying to kill you,” Scott finally gets out and it makes Stiles pause.

Stiles swallows hard and looks away. “Yes, and then I pulled the pin. And all these metal braces came down.” His heart is thundering now, racing in his chest even as his voice remains level and his demeanor outwardly calm. “And one of them just, just went right through him.”

And Scott doesn’t want to push Stiles, doesn’t want to repeat the disaster that happened in the rain, but he needs to know. Needs to know why his best friend went through that and didn’t say anything. “Why didn’t you think you could tell me?”

“It was just the way you were looking at me that night. You know, you’re standing there with a wrench in your hand, you’re looking at me like I just bashed you in the head with it. You know, like I’d broken your sacred rule and that’s it, there’s no going back,” Stiles says and the truth in his heartbeat makes some intimate part of Scott ache like he’s lost something precious.

“I know the difference,” Scott says. Stiles stares at Scott like he doesn’t quite know what to say, then drops his gaze back to the gas container.

“The difference?” he asks and the uncertainty in his tone and the anxiety practically pouring off him with every rabbit quick beat of his heart is like physical pain in Scott’s chest.

He forces a small smile trying to offer Stiles the forgiveness and assurance he needs and says, “I know what self-defense is. I know the difference.”

The look on Stiles face says he doesn’t really understand what Scott is trying to say, but he falls quiet again after that and Scott doesn’t push him. They walk back to the jeep in companionable silence and Scott thinks maybe this is it. The first step in the right direction.

* * *

Scott initiates the second time and maybe that’s why Stiles doesn’t actually say much. But it’s dark, and he and Stiles are just sitting in a desert. There’s nowhere else more suited for this kind of conversations so he lets it slip out, a whisper of honesty in the quiet of the night. “I don’t know why I believed him.”

And it’s the truth. Scott doesn't know why he believed Theo over Stiles. It goes against all reason and yet somehow it happened. It reminds Scott of something Stiles once told him from a book he’d read. People are stupid, they will believe a lie because they want to believe it’s true, or because they are afraid it might be true. At the time when he and Stiles were kids it had been the first part they’d been concerned with, Stiles convinced that it was the key to expertly lying to their parents.

It’s the second part that applies now.

“I don’t know why we didn’t just keep talking that night,” Stiles says softly and it feels like an olive branch offering. A recognition that whatever he’s done wrong, Scott isn’t the only one at fault.

“Five more minutes and we would’ve figured out that there were two different stories,” he says softly and he wonders just for a moment how everything would have gone differently if he hadn’t left Stiles standing there in the rain. “We would’ve filled a lot of blanks. Should’ve just kept talking.”

“He knew we wouldn’t,” Stiles says and the note of defeat in his voice is painful. Like he’s resigned and given up, like all the fight has drained out of him.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this.”

Stiles glances at him, a faint frown of confusion drawing his eyebrows together. “Like what?”

Scott sighs and speaks another truth, one he’s been too scared to acknowledge in the light of day. “I knew, sooner or later, one of us was going to get a little too much blood on our hands. I half thought it was gonna be Malia.” It feels a little raw to admit it, like he’s blaming Malia for something she hasn’t even done yet, but it’s a moment of honesty here under the stars and Scott doesn’t want to avoid it anymore.

Stiles doesn’t respond, not really, just says, “Well, she definitely seems like she’s working on it.” It’s just a placeholder, a sentence with no real meaning behind the words. Stiles isn’t agreeing with him, just stating information they already know.

“Just always thought that if it were to happen, then it should be me,” Scott says and it’s uncomfortable to voice it aloud. Like it’s some dark secret that doesn’t make sense, and he worries Stiles will misinterpret it because Stiles is staring at him in that unreadable way of his where Scott can tell a million things are running through his mind, but can’t tell what even one of them is. “I’m the one who’s constantly putting you in danger,” Scott clarifies, “risking your lives for people you don’t even know. It should have been me.”

Stiles is still staring at him, still unreadable, but his heart is steady, and Scott takes a kind of solace in that even if it feels a little like affirmation that he failed Stiles in some intrinsic way. Stiles doesn’t say anything more, just pushes himself to his feet saying, “Come on. We only got a few hours to sunrise. Let’s go.”

* * *

“You’re wrong, you know,” Stiles says softly one night. They’re lying on the floor of his bedroom taking a short break before getting back to work. It’s late and it’s just the two of them. They’d started out at Scott’s house, but Stiles had taken one look at Scott’s sorry excuse of an information board and muttered, “Amateur,” before insisting they move to his house. Scott doesn’t mind. It’s comforting to be back in Stiles’ space, drawing in his best friend’s scent and knowing that in some intimate way he’s been let back in Stiles’ life.

“Wrong about what?” Scott asks because it needs some clarification. Not for the first time he’s glad Stiles can’t sense chemosignals like he can. Glad Stiles doesn’t know the effect his words have on Scott sometimes when he’s vague or accusing.

“That it should have been you,” Stiles said breathing out gently and sounding on the verge of sleep. “You’re wrong. It shouldn’t be you.”

It takes Scott’s exhaustion addled brain a moment to catch up on what Stiles means. By the time he’s figured it out Stiles is talking again.

“Malia and I,” Stiles says. “We already had blood on our hands. Even before Donavan.”

“What happened with Malia’s mom and sister and what happened with you and the Nogitsune wasn’t your fault. It’s not the same,” Scott says unthinkingly. It hits him a moment after how that sounds and he’s halfway through a stumbled clarification before Stiles just smiles.

“I know what you meant, Scott,” Stiles says. “And you’re right. Partly. It’s not the same, but it’s not that different. Malia’s eyes are still blue, and there’s a part of me that thinks if I was a wolf my eyes would be blue too. Would have been blue even before Donavan. You don’t, you don’t deserve to have blue eyes.”

Scott takes a moment to absorb that, wonders how much Stiles has thought about this, how much he’s worried about what color his eyes would be. No one was shy about telling Stiles it wasn’t his fault after the Nogitsune, but Scott should have known Stiles wouldn’t believe them, at least not entirely. “No one deserves that,” he says finally and he wants to reach out, offer Stiles physical reassurance, but he doesn’t think it would be well received. Not now. Not for this.

“Maybe,” Stiles says, eyes closed now and breathing slowing. “But especially not you. So, no, it shouldn’t be you. It shouldn’t be any of us.”

* * *

Three weeks later Stiles is asleep on Scott’s bedroom floor. Scott hadn’t expected him to come over but it wasn’t like Scott could turn him away. It feels like coming home to have Stiles voluntarily by his side again; he hadn’t told Scott why he’d come over and Scott hadn’t asked. Just let Stiles in and made light conversation until Stiles’ breaths evened out into sleep.

Scott can’t sleep, he’s too wired, too on edge, and some part of him feels the need to watch over Stiles. So instead he settles down at his desk and peruses some of the research Stiles printed out for him a few days ago.

Stiles sleeps for a little over an hour before he stirs, tiny whimpers falling from his lips and heartbeat racketing up from the slow rhythm of sleep to bordering on all out panicked. Stiles is still asleep when Scott drops to his knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly unsure if he should wake Stiles himself or let Stiles wake up on his own. He watches Stiles struggle for only a moment before the pitiful whines and nearly overpowering scent of fear prompts him into shaking Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles jerks awake immediately, panic ratcheting up for a heart stopping second and hands clenched on Scott’s arms, eyes flying open and gaze bouncing haphazardly around the room before focusing on Scott. Stiles stares at him blankly seeming to not realize where he is at first, but eventually his heart slows and his grip loosens.

“You okay?” Scott asks even if he knows it’s a stupid question. Stiles will say yes and Scott will know he’s lying.

Stiles licks his lips, stares at Scott long enough that Scott actually starts to worry more than his usual amount, then says, “No.”

And Scott’s heart drops because it sounds so final the way Stiles said it. But he also reverently thinks, _oh, this is another one_ , and his breath rushes out of him in anticipation because he craves these moments more than he’d like to admit.

“Do you, do you want to talk about it?” Scott asks.

Stiles blinks, hesitates. “No.”

Scott swallows, forces himself to nod and smile through his disappointment. “Okay,” he says and it’s true. It is okay. He backs off, gives Stiles his space, knows how it feels to wake from a nightmare shaky and unsteady and needing a moment to himself.

So he returns to his reading and Stiles retreats to the bed, curled into a ball and looking especially tense. Scott ignores the rush of affection that sends through him, tries to focus on the words before him, but he can’t. Not when it sounds and smells like Stiles is working himself up into a panic attack.

“I wanted him dead,” Stiles says finally.

Scott doesn’t react, doesn’t have to ask whom Stiles is talking about. “Wanting him dead and murdering him are two different things,” he says.

Stiles sighs, resting his head on his drawn up knees. “That’s what my dad said. But it doesn't feel like it’s different.”

“Well, he’s right,” Scott says injecting as much authority into the words as possible, and Stiles just looks at him like Scott’s throwing him a lifeline. “It’s different.”

* * *

Stiles walks out of English that Friday. Scott doesn’t know what set him off, doesn’t know if anything did really. One minute Stiles is quietly working on the questions from the book; the next he’s gasping and stumbling from the room while the rest of the class just stares in shock. Scott doesn’t wait, doesn’t listen to the teacher’s calls, just follows Stiles right on out and tracks his scent to the restroom.

He’s locked in the stall furthest from the door. Scott can see his shoes, can tell he’s tucked into the corner, breathing in short, punched out bursts that sound like they hurt. Scott doesn’t say anything, just locks the door to the bathroom and sinks down to sit next to the stall. He can tell Stiles knows that he’s there, but he doesn’t say anything either, just continues to breathe erratically for several minutes until finally his heart begins to slow and his breaths come in easier.

After awhile the silence seems a little overwhelming. Scott blinks away sudden tears that he doesn’t quite understand and says in the most reassuring tone that he can manage, “You’re okay.”

Stiles sniffs and sucks in a shuddering breath like he’s trying not to cry. “Scott, I’m sorry,” he whispers almost too low for Scott to hear.

“For what?” Scott asks a little flummoxed. Stiles isn’t one for apologizing, not verbally at least; he apologizes through actions not words. Scott can count the number of times Stiles has flat out said he was sorry on one hand in all the years Scott’s known him.

Stiles laughs, bitterly and without mirth. It’s harsh and grating, drawn out of him like it hurts, and echoes eerily off the bathroom walls. “For what?” he repeats voice strained to the point of cracking. “For everything. I'm sorry that when Theo told me to choose between you and my dad I abandoned you. I'm sorry you fucking died. I’m sorry that I punched you in the hospital. I’m just sorry.”

Scott lets Stiles breathe for a moment, tries to sort through the plethora of emotions the apology elicits. He thinks, maybe, this is easier since they can’t see each other. “Okay,” he settles on. It’s a little insufficient, but at the same time it says everything he needs it to.

“No,” Stiles says and Scott doesn’t like how close to a breakdown he sounds. “ _Not_ okay. It’s not okay.”

“Your dad was dying,” Scott says staring at the white tiles on the far wall. “You were scared. Angry. And you didn’t know what was happening to me.”

“That’s not a fucking excuse,” Stiles bites out.

“No,” Scott agrees easily. “It’s not. But it’s an explanation.”

They lapse into silence. Scott listens to Stiles’ heartbeat, his breaths, the dripping water in the third sink, the low hum of water in the pipes. He counts the time with the drips, gets to thirty before saying, “I’m sorry too.”

“Why?” It’s small. Like Stiles doesn’t understand why Scott would be sorry.

“For believing Theo over you. For not listening to you,” Scott says the reasons rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I should have known. Should have listened to your heart, smelled the chemosignals, should have trusted you.”

“You were scared,” Stiles says echoing Scott’s words. “Stressed. And I was lying to you.”

“Yeah,” Scott concedes because it’s true and there’s no reason to deny it. “Explanation. Not excuse.”

“Explanation, not excuse,” Stiles repeats softly and it sounds like a promise. He pauses but Scott can sense the edge of something coming, then Stiles says, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I’m tired of being afraid.”

“I'm tired of feeling like I’m failing,” Scott confesses. “I'm tired of letting everyone down.”

“I think,” Stiles says slowly like he’s mulling the words over, “that you’re doing much better.”

“Really?” Scott asks and he’s a little surprised at how much those simple words mean to him. How much the simple reassurance of a friend can help ease the pressure on his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and it’s unequivocal.

Scott sighs, wishes he could see Stiles’ face. “You won’t lose me,” he says and Stiles’ heart jumps. “No matter what, you won’t lose me. So that's, that’s one less thing you can be afraid of.”

“You can’t,” Stiles says before stuttering to a stop. He swallows heavily, takes a deep breath. “You can’t plan life like that, Scott. Don’t, don’t promise something you might not be able to keep.”

“This isn’t just about Donavan is it?” Scott asks softly. He can practically hear Stiles thinking in the following silence. Wonders why he didn’t figure it out sooner. Stiles has always been the high-strung one, the one who didn’t handle change well, the one stressed over change.

“Are you worried about failing just as an alpha?” Stiles counters.

Scott frowns, thinks about AP Biology, about UC Davis, about his dream of becoming a vet. About the drop form still sitting unsigned in his backpack, the sheet under it with proof of his steadily dropping grade, and his mom’s quiet conviction that he can succeed. “No.”

“Everything’s going to change,” Stiles says. “Everything.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “It is. But I think, I think some change might be good for us.”

“Really?”

“We’re gonna make it, Stiles. You and me and the pack. We’re gonna make it,” Scott says and the words sound like a promise. He hopes Stiles can hear that in them, can hear the promise and believes him. He hopes to hell he can keep it, and he hopes that even if he can’t, somehow, in the end, they’ll still be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and as always I can be found on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
